


Pas de Deux

by sergeant_angel



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, Young Avengers (Comics)
Genre: Ballet AU, F/F, Fluff, Gen, Kate and Tony are bros, Performing Arts AU, Sam and Kate hate each other for real for real, i've been sitting on this plot for a year and it got sadder as i waited, musician au, slow burn ish? lbr do i write anything else, they do not that's a lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 02:56:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8951119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sergeant_angel/pseuds/sergeant_angel
Summary: There's a dance academy in Hell's Kitchen that needs a Christmas miracle. Luckily, Clint knows people.This is...sort of that story.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is unedited, unproofread, etc. etc.  
> Also, fun fact, I have never actually seen the Nutcracker, so if this seems like it was written by someone who has never seen the Nutcracker...it's because it was.

In dance years, Clint is ancient.

Well, in ballet years.

Other people joke with him about it. Kate doesn’t.

Kate knows that she’d start off ribbing him, but then the bitterness would bleed through. She wouldn’t start off intending to cut, but that’s where it would end up. Jealousy and bitterness, and still, after all these years, not past it. Not quite.

Clint has been helping her the past few months. Kate isn’t sure she’ll ever make it back en pointe—but, as Clint keeps telling her, that’s not _the point_. And then he elbows her and winks at her because he’s lame like that.

Being stiff and clumsy next to Clint is—

Well, it’s not his fault.

Doesn’t mean she has to like it.

Winter is worse, because Clint is busy at the studio, getting the winter dance recitals ready.

Winter is worse, because Kate becomes _painfully_ aware of the arthritis in her ankle.

Winter is worse because of _the Nutcracker._

* * *

“Oh, my God,” Natasha swears again, as if that will change anything. “Bucky, are you serious?”

“As a funeral,” he says.

“How does this happen?” she asks, again, as if that will change the fact that they’ve blown their sound system six hours before the recital starts. “What are we supposed to do? Use a CD player?”

“Well,” Bucky does not look entirely convinced, or entirely enthused. “I mean, we might have to.”

“Fuckity fuck,” Natasha says.

“We could get a speaker for my phone,” he continues. “And just. Turn it up really loud.”

“ _Fucking fuck._ ”

“Once more, with feeling,” Bucky snaps, and this is why she hates him.

Clint breezes in, five minutes late with an actual Starbucks in his hand and she’s going to kill him right after she kills Bucky and before she kills Noh, who is tinkering around with the sound system.

She might not kill Noh, not if he—

“Do you want the bad news or the worse news?” Noh’s voice drifts down from the ceiling.

She will kill them _all_.

“Worse news,” Bucky hollers.

“This building could catch on fire at any second,” Noh informs them. “I think you had some rats in here or something, gnawing on wires or something. You guys should really talk to the landlord.”

“The bad news?”

“Your sound system is toast. But when you get a new one, it’ll be amazing?”

“Does the sound system fall under landlord stuff?” Clint asks, pressing a coffee into Natasha’s hands.

“Sure doesn’t,” Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Well, shit. What are we going to do? Playing the music from a phone or computer won’t work because we won’t be able to get big enough speakers--”

“We could have live music,” Clint suggests, a spray of scone crumbs landing on the floor. “Oops. Sorry.”

“Oh, so you know an orchestra that can come in on short notice, who will be fine with not getting paid?”

“Well, I know a musician?” Clint hedges. “But, like. She would need the music.”

“What does she play? And if you say drums I will kill you.”

“Uh. No? Not drums. Look, let me call her first—“

“Clint—“

“Look, let me make the call, okay?”

* * *

Kate stares at a row of liquor bottles as if they hold the key to this conversation making sense.

“Katie? You still there?”

“You know how I feel about—“

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t an emergency, you know that. There’s a ton of kids and this is a big deal for us. This is where our rich donors come in and decide to write us big fat checks so we can pay rent for the year. Kate. C’mon. Embrace the spirit of Christmas.”

“I can’t play the entire ballet on a cello. You realize that, right?”

“Yeah, well, it’s not like you play for the Philharmonic, or anything.”

“Right.” Bottles of vodka and tequila, gin and whiskey, have failed to make sense of this conversation. “Fine. How long do I have to find people?”

“Uh. Two hours? Just to be safe.”

Kate hangs up without saying goodbye. “Tony!”

The man in question jerks his head up, scratching his pool cue along the table. “We’re doing something different this year. Come on.”

* * *

“Hi, sorry, um, I’m Clint’s friend?” the dark-haired woman says, cheeks flushed from the cold, cello case in tow. “Sorry I’m late, my ride decided to take a detour—“

“Ungrateful infant, that’s what you are,” a man comes in behind her—is that _Tony Stark?_

“Tony, I don’t care if it’s Christmas or that we’re in a kids dance studio, I will stab you through the heart with my bow.”

“Then who will play piano?” he asks disparagingly. “What, are you going to call up your other piano-playing acquaintances?”

“I do have them, Stark.”

“Not that will do you a favor like this,” he grins, smugness radiating from every pore.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Just a little.”

“Point,” he concedes.

“Right,” the woman rolls her eyes as a few more people file in after her. “Uh, so…”

“Oh! Sorry. I’m Natasha, this is Bucky, Noh over there is…useless, because our sound system is fried,” Natasha points to each man in turn. “Thank you so, so much for—“

“Doing the impossible?” Clint’s friend snaps. “You realize that, right? This is impossible.”

“Anything is possible!” A man claps her on the shoulder, striding forward to shake Natasha’s hand. “Sam Wilson. Brass.”

“ _Nerd_ ,” Clint’s friend coughs into her hand.

“Shove it, Bishop!”

Bishop rolls her eyes again. Natasha doesn’t know what her deal is, but she doesn’t have the time or patience for it.

“I’m Kate,” she finally introduces herself. “Strings. Bobbi, also strings. America is…I have no idea where America went. America is woodwinds, Matt back there we picked up at Harold Square—“

“I didn’t know you could actually put together whole sentences,” Matt interrupts. “We only talk to each other in Doge-speak,” he clarifies for the rest of the group.

“Matt is percussion,” Kate picks right back up. “Such drum. Wow.”

“Much timpani,” Matt doesn’t miss a beat. “Amaze.”

Natasha stares at them. The drummer is blind, the pianist is a notorious playboy, and the cellist looks like she would murder the lot of them with little compunction.

“Wait,” Kate says, pointing at Noh, who has just emerged from the catwalk covered in dust. “Don’t you DJ at Club Galaxy?”

* * *

Kate thinks of the whole thing like the 24-hour theatre project she’d helped with her last two years of college. Hit the ground running, and don’t stop until the final curtain.

There’s a small store of instruments that she, Sam, and America have liberated over the years, so they actually have—a _portion_ of what they need. Like some sort of musical hoarders.

Subway Dude— _Matt_ , apparently—claims that he only needs the cymbals and a tambourine. He is assembling a few metal chairs and tubs and trash cans of varying sizes and this is officially the weirdest thing Kate’s ever done.

America finally sails in, sucking on like, three reeds, Billy in tow.

“America said you needed a conductor,” Billy looks flustered and flushed and other things starting with _f_ probably. “You know I’m not—“

“We aren’t exactly an orchestra,” Kate points out. “Billy, it’ll be fine.”

The redhead—Natasha—keeps coming in to check on them as they divvy up the parts that they can manage to play, the parts they don’t need—Tchaikovsky is rolling in his grave.

“Anything I can do to help?”

Natasha doesn’t look like she wants to help. Natasha looks like she could use a sandwich and a cup of cocoa and a five year nap.

Not that she’d take one. Or that Kate would suggest it.

Natasha probably wakes up with her hair perfect.

This is not a helpful train of thought.

“We’re going to need music stands.”

“Music stands?” Natasha looks like Kate’s just asked her to carve a nutcracker out of cheese.

“Yeah. You know. For music.”

“I know what they’re for—you don’t have any?”

“We brought like twenty instruments, I don’t know what else you want from us.”

“Right, you’re right—let me find Noh.”

Natasha turns so quickly her amazing red hair smacks Kate in the face.

That’s about on par.

* * *

In a surprising turn of events, it’s not the _worst_ performance of _the Nutcracker._

* * *

Natasha finally breaks away from her rosy-cheeked students and their proud parents, from the Upper East Side do-gooders with deep pockets and a desire for tax breaks, to track down her motley orchestra.

They’re sprawled in folding chairs in one of the rehearsal rooms, instrument cases and white plastic tubs scattered around them, sheet music in slipshod piles, a bottle of champagne being passed from person to person.

“I feel like I ran a marathon,” Stark tugs his tie loose.

“I’ve run triathlons that were less stressful than this,” Sam takes a swig, tapping the bottle against Matt’s arm.

“My contract law final was less stressful than this,” Matt says, fingers curling around the bottle.

“The Nutcracker,” Kate says. It takes Natasha a minute to locate her, spread-eagled on the floor behind Stark. “The _Nutc—_ “

“Yeah, yeah, Bishop, we know how much you hate it,” Stark interrupts.

“Oh, I don’t!” Matt passes the bottle to America.

“I’ve actually never heard this story, either,” Bobbi pipes up.

“Yeah, what _is_ the deal with that?” Sam cranes himself around his chair to look at her.

Natasha fades back outside the door, thinking about leaving them to it before deciding she wants to know.

“It’s not _the Nutcracker_ itself, per se,” Stark begins, heedless of Kate’s groan. “It’s ballet.”

“Screw you, man.”

“Hey, you told me years ago that would never happen. Don’t go reneging now, you’ll upend my entire life.”

There’s a sound Natasha can’t place, and a high-pitched giggle.

“Don’t tickle me with your toes! I don’t know where your feet have been!” Another giggle before Stark clears his throat. “Now I’m definitely telling this story. Katie-girl here was a dancer.”

“ _Not_ an exotic dancer,” America interjects. “I already asked.”

“Ballet,” Kate’s voice is muffled, like she’s turned away from the group. “It was ballet.”

An awkward hush descends.

“I got accepted to Juilliard—”

“Why’d you end up at NYU, then?” Sam interrupts.

“For _dance_ ,” she corrects. “A month before I was supposed to start—wrong place, wrong time with one of my dad’s business rivals. Broken ankle and a ruptured Achilles tendon and…no more dance.”

The silence probably isn’t crushing for people who aren’t Natasha, for people who aren’t frantically doing mental math and trying to guess how old Clint’s friend is—

“She usually doesn’t tell that story,” Clint says from Natasha’s elbow, making her jump. “That’s kind of—“

“Clint,” Natasha might say it too loudly, “Clint—is she—is that—is that why you became my friend?”

“I’m your friend because I like you. She didn’t talk to me for months after that happened, I didn’t know she wasn’t going until I saw the class without her in it.”

Natasha’s hands clench in Clint’s wrinkled mess of a shirt. She’s trying to quiet the roar in her brain, trying to think past _we’re sorry, but—_ and tears and disappointment and _we’ve actually had an opening_ —

“C’mon,” Clint slaps her shoulder, unaware of her paradigm shift. “Let’s take our orchestra out for drinks. I think our contemporary Nutcracker production should have them, too, Bucky already agrees—hey! Losers! Come on. We can’t pay you, but we can feed you!”

* * *

“Thank you,” Natasha tells Kate again. She has to lean close to the other woman to be heard of the raucous holiday crowds at Josie’s. “Seriously, I can’t—I _owe_ you.”

“No,” Kate smiles. “It was fun. It beat dragging Tony from bar to bar like we usually do.”

“I doubt that—“

“No, I mean it. I have a tenuous relationship with _the Nutcracker_. This was good for me.”

“I overheard you talking about that,” Natasha finds herself saying. “I didn’t mean—it just happened.”

“Well, at least I don’t have to tell it again,” Kate’s smile is more forced this time. “I’m—I’m not glad you got my spot. But if someone had to get it, I’m glad it was you.”

“You knew?”

“Well, yeah,” Kate says as if this is the most obvious thing. “Why else do you think I avoid your school? Clint’s my best friend, I want to see what he does but—it’s hard.”

“Oh.”

“I’m supposed to be you.” Kate’s lips twist in a wry approximation of a smile. “It’s weird.”

They are silent for a moment as Natasha scrabbles for something to say. “How did you wind up playing the cello?”

“I was one of those rich kids whose parents shuffled them off from activity to activity so they weren’t underfoot and had beautiful college applications.” Kate’s voice holds no malice, but her lips are tight, like she’s _practiced_ the malice out of the words.

Natasha can relate.

“My parents smuggled me out of the Soviet Union. Sent me to live with my aunt and her husband.” Natasha’s voice, like Kate’s, is composed, almost neutral. “I was a baby, practically. I met my parents again when I was eight.”

Kate doesn’t fill the ensuing silence with anything, which Natasha appreciates. Most people do, most people mean well, but what do you say to that?

Kate presses her shoulder into Natasha’s for a minute or two before propelling off of her bar stool to break up what might become a bar fight over at the dartboard.

Kate’s aim is as good as Clint’s, Natasha notices.

Maybe better.

* * *

“So you know how we do a winter performance, right?” Clint shoves a coffee under Kate’s nose as he says this, which is usually a bad sign. Clint does not _offer_ coffee unless he has an ulterior motive. He hoards it like a goblin.

Do goblins hoard? Or is that trolls?

“Hey!” Clint snaps his fingers in front of her. “Space case. Back to earth.”

“Winter performance. I’m paying attention.”

“So our sound system is a fire hazard. Still. That Matt guy you found is helping us with our landlord, so thanks for that, by the way—but anyway. Point being, we need music. And we were thinking, since this year we’re doing a contemporary Nutcracker, we should have traditional music. You know. Live. Orchestral.” Clint makes sweeping gestures as he says this, as if Kate needed a visual cue as to what _orchestra_ entailed. “But we can’t fit a whole orchestra in the school. So we were hoping to do orchestra lite.”

Kate stares at him.

“Can you call your friends and ask if they’d do it again? Or at least talk with us about it? Pretty please?”

* * *

“So,” Tony leans back in his chair as the company finishes their rehearsal with a runthrough of the curtain call. “This is the gritty reboot of the Nutcracker?”

“The Nutcracker is terrifying without a gritty reboot,” America disagrees, tossing popcorn in the air before catching it in her mouth. “Rats? A candy kingdom? A dude turned into a _nutcracker_? What about that says _seasonal fun for children_?”

“It’s cool,” Sam ventures. “I like it.”

“It doesn’t fit, though,” Billy’s eyes are half-closed, his elbows on his knees.

Kate has seen this look before. It’s the look of a man who is about to make her life hell for the sake of art.

“This is a performance of the Nutcracker for a new era,” he starts.

“Oh god, no,” Sam mutters, reaching for Kate’s hand. “Lord have mercy on our souls.”

She takes it, squeezing. “I don’t think we’re good enough people for that.”

“What if we took a recording of _some_ of the parts, and played most of it live and…” he trails off. “It needs something else, I think. Probably.”

“What? Like techno-synth and record scratches?” Kate says, rolling her eyes at Sam, who scoffs.

Billy does not.

Billy looks at her like—

“Oh god,” Kate whispers in mock-horror. “I’ve doomed us all.”

* * *

Kate spends more time in the next week at the school than she does at home.

She gets to meet the young…ish Kamala, who will be playing the post-apocalyptic Clara. Kamala derives great joy in making a vein in Bucky’s forehead stand out as she pretends to forget her choreography and inserts tap steps instead.

Kamala is also the one who insists on feeding the musicians, which by and large makes her the Orchestra Lite’s favorite performer. The Orchestra Lite and That Guy, since Noh has been conscripted into Billy's madman orchestration. 

The company has pulled in some older students from other dance programs and colleges—kids wanting to bulk up their resumes, just to have enough bodies on the stage.

Kate is surprised to find that she actually likes the wild reimagining. A nutcracker automaton, the drab real-life offset by the lush land of sweets—

But Kate’s favorite part is the Sugar Plum Fairy reimagined as a warrior queen.

And Billy had wanted to cut The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy!

(“It does not fit _artistically_ with the story they are trying to tell.”

“I will artistically _murder you_ in your sleep, William.”)

Kate isn’t bothering to look at her phone, because if she looks at the time, she’ll weep.

Air shifts next to her, and a faint smell of something vaguely floral.

It’s Natasha’s shampoo.

“So if Clint steps through a rotten floorboard like he did last year, you’ll do the _pas de deux_ with me, right?”

Kate groans, remembering that incident very well. Clint had been lucky not to break anything, and to walk away only needing a tetanus shot.

“Kate couldn’t be _half_ the cavalier I am,” Clint calls from across the room, voice slightly muffled as if he’s got his head buried in a pillow.

“You’re right. She’d be _twice_ the cavalier you are,” Natasha retorts.

“I feel so loved,” Kate turns her head and winds up in Natasha’s hair.

She would be perfectly content to sleep there, except Tony is the worst and makes them all go home to actual beds.

Since when is _Tony_ the responsible one, that’s what Kate wants to know.

* * *

“So when are you going to stop pining after my best friend?”

Kate is applying rosin to her bow and it takes a minute for Clint’s words to sink in.

“Hello? Earth to Red! Are you going to ask her out?” Clint pokes her cheek twice before Natasha grabs his finger.

“I will break this.”

“Ask her out.”

“It’s weird.”

“It’s kismet.” Clint pulls his finger from her grasp. “Don’t make me have to pull out the big guns.”

“Stop being weird, Barton.”

“Kamala and Matt are having a noise-off. I’m totally normal.”

Well, that does explain the presence of Kamala’s tap shoes and three different kinds of chairs and the tremendous racket coming from the corner. Poor Bucky looks a little constipated, like he’s debating between being a ninety-year-old man or just grinning like an idiot. He _is_ an idiot. He should probably just embrace it.

* * *

“ _She helped me break in my pointe shoes_ ,” Natasha’s whisper is anguished.

Clint looks alarmed until her words register, and he doubles over, laughing.

“She helped sew the ribbons on!”

“Dude,” he tells her between laughs. “You’re toast. Just accept it.”

“What?” Kamala pipes up from the floor, examining her taps like the secret to the universe is etched in them. “It’s not like she touched your soul or something.” She plucks at the laces. "Get it? Soul? Sole?"

* * *

Natasha’s going to do it.

Probably.

Maybe.

She might.

Soon.

Soon. Ish.

“Break a leg!” Kate says, looking a little flushed, looking a lot excited.

“Don’t look up,” Bucky advises, so of _course_ they do.

Mistletoe.

Clint is dead.

“Oh, well, you know. Don’t want to tempt fate!” Kate blushes, pressing her lips to Natasha’s cheek, then her other. “ _Merde_ ,”she adds, backing away to take her spot in the orchestra.

“ _Marry_ that woman,” Bucky tells her.

Natasha catches Kate before she heads in front of the curtain. “Break a leg!” she says, before planting her lips on Kate’s.

Kate doesn’t do _anything_ for a terrifying moment before Natasha feels her lips curl into a smile.

“I don’t want to smudge your makeup,” Kate stammers. “After the show?”

* * *

After the show, there’s a bouquet of roses and lavender. It’s nice, but not quite as nice as kissing the person who gave it to her.

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to the lovely people who participated in this year's Kate Bishop Secret Santa! I hope you're all having fun writing/giffing/arting.


End file.
